


Of Challah, and Latkes, and Gelt (Oh My)

by amorremanet



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Body Image, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Community: hc_bingo, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Fluff and Angst, Food Issues, Hanukkah, Holidays, M/M, Weight Gain, chubby!Jensen, chubby!Misha, chubby!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 05:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And it's not like Jensen can say that he's just been oblivious to how he's gotten chubbier during this semester. He can't even <b>think</b> about saying that.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Challah, and Latkes, and Gelt (Oh My)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmylizzie](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=emmylizzie).



> This was written, first and foremost, as a holiday present for ~emmylizzie, who asked for Jensen/Misha with the prompt, "challah bread, latkes, and gelt." Happy holidays, sweetheart; I hope it's something you enjoy. ♥ Other prompts used herein were, "comfort food or item" as my wild card space for ~hc_bingo, "companion" for 100 things ([random prompts](http://amor-remanet.livejournal.com/560116.html)), and "loving yourself" as the wild card space for ~cottoncandy_bingo.
> 
> This was also written for the ~chubwinchesters [dice meme](http://chubwinchesters.livejournal.com/125936.html) with the roll of 2, 6, 1, 1, 3, which translates to chubby!Jensen or Dean, holiday-themed fic, and a gain of fifty pounds.

Jensen sighs and stares down at the measuring tape, at where his fingers are still holding on—the forty-six-inch marker and a little bit past it. He hasn't seen the business end of a scale since before he left for his freshman year at Kripke U and he wants to see one even less, now. Adding a good eight inches to his waist can't be any kind of good for the diet he was supposed to be on this semester—can't be any kind of good for how his parents are going to react when they see him at the airport tomorrow afternoon.

And it's not like Jensen can say that he's just been oblivious to how he's gotten chubbier during this semester. He can't even _think_ about saying that.

For one thing, no one would believe him, and for another thing, he _has_ noticed all how his shirts ride up on his round, pudgy belly, how he's needed to buy new jeans because he can't even get most of his buttoned underneath the swell of his stomach, how he's totally failed at all of his attempts to diet. He hasn't even let Misha see him naked for weeks now, because he hasn't been able to get any thinner. It's just really _hard_ —every time he tries to start a new diet, he just gets super-hungry and ends up giving in to all his cravings for chocolate, or cookies, or some massive concoction from off the dining hall's ice cream bar.

(Because it's always massive, whatever Jensen ends up making for himself—he can't just have one scoop of one flavor, because the ice cream bar's too unpredictable; you can't quite predict when you're going to see chocolate chip cookie dough or mint chocolate chip ever again.)

Still, it's now or never—Jensen has to face the music and get a fix on how much weight he's put on this term. Shuffling his feet, grinding his chunky thighs up against each other, he takes a deep breath and holds it, closes his eyes as he steps up onto the scale—he lets the breath out, but only so he can suck in another one and his stomach with it. He can see the read-out, still—he's not yet too big to see his toes, thank God—but everything's clearer with his flab sort of, kind of, a little bit out of the way. Not that it really helps Jensen feel any better when he sees the results. Not that anything Jensen can think of _could_ make him feel better.

Not that Jensen can stop his heart from plummeting into the pit of his stomach when he reads the bright red digital numbers before him spelling out, _242.5_.

*******

"So you put on a little bit of weight this term," Misha says way too brightly, because he has no idea what the Hell he's talking about or how bad it is. "It's not the end of the world, Jensen—I mean, it's obviously not the end of the world because the world's still here and it's still going right on. But what I mean to say is that you're not going to die just because you put on a bit of weight this semester—you're just not. I promise you that."

It's been a full fifteen minutes since Jensen saw just how fat he's let himself get, and all he's managed to do since then is sulk at the kitchen table while plowing through ten of Misha's chocolate-dipped double-stuffed Oreos and a small pile of gelt—because that's just what he fucking needs right now, chocolate. More calories and more carbs and more stuff to make him get even fatter than he's already let himself slip up to. Jensen sighs and unwraps another piece of gelt, though, peeling the gold foil paper off of it and popping the chocolate coin into his mouth—there's a rush of feeling just a little bit better, at first, and then it just doubles back into wanting to kick himself for eating like this now.

And it's all Misha's fault that Jensen's eating like this right now—at least, it's Misha's fault that the gelt is around, and the challah bread that Jensen rips off a piece of so he can have some taste other than the chocolate's lingering after-kick, and the heady, greasy smell of the latkes that Misha's frying up in his skillet. Jensen can't blame Misha for how he eats beyond, _well, he puts the food out and around so it can be all delicious and tempting like that_ —it's not Misha's fault that Jensen can't resist the siren call of all this delicious Hanukkah food. It's not Misha's fault that they got put in apartment-style housing with their RA and three other guys, so Misha has the chance to make all of the food he likes to leave around for people to eat. It's not even Misha's fault that he likes feeding people as much as he does.

When Misha's done making the latkes, Jensen's probably going to cram ten of them down his throat, just because they're going to be delicious, and it won't be Misha's fault. But it feels better to blame him for that—probably because it means that Jensen's somehow less responsible for letting himself put on as much weight as he has. Which he really isn't—not that he knows of, anyway—but it still feels better to try blaming someone else, even when that someone else is his favorite roommate-turned-boyfriend and his second best friend, only beaten by Jared back home, because Jensen's known Jared since they were in kindergarten.

Huffing, Misha looks up from the skillet, blinks at Jensen owlishly for a moment, and then frowns. "Oh, come on, Debbie Downer," he says gently. "Don't be such a… well. Don't be such a Debbie Downer. It's Hanukkah, for fuck's sake—let's celebrate one of my people's miracles by eating too much and having a party. Sound like a plan, Jen?"

"Yeah, like you would know anything about eating too much, Twiggy. Your skinny ass wouldn't know anything about fat or chubby or putting on weight if it fucking bit you," Jensen says, grabbing another chocolate-dipped Oreo up off the plate. He bites into it with a snap and sucks on it until both the candy coating and the cookie have gone and melted in his mouth—his chest writhes with shame and guilt as soon as he finished the thing, though, and not just because he shouldn't have eaten it.

Misha squints at Jensen as though he's speaking Klingon or something. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sorry," he says with a heavy sigh. "That wasn't necessary. I was just thinking, like. I was just upset because… I'm just. I've put on fifty pounds since August— _fifty_ of them, Misha. Fifty-two-and-a-half, if you want to get splitting hairs about it? And it's not like I was exactly _skinny_ when I weighed one-ninety, but like. I worked my ass off to lose those twenty pounds and now I don't fit into even my fat clothes. I had to call my parents for permission to use the credit card to buy all freaking new ones, and they probably think, like, I lost more weight but I haven't—"

"I had to get new clothes back around Thanksgiving, too, Jen," Misha says as though this is both obvious and nothing—not any kind of big deal at all. He has to be joking if he'll talk about the matter like that. "No, really. I've got a few of my old shirts that still fit, but even they're pretty snug—I've put on almost thirty pounds this semester—"

" _Thirty_?" Jensen splutters, nearly chokes on his second piece of Misha's challah loaf, probably being way more insensitive when he means—but it's just, like… "You are seriously so full of shit right now."

"Well, twenty-seven? I weighed one-ninety-seven last week and one-seventy just two days before we moved in—and if you think that's a lot? I used to weigh one-sixty. That's what I clocked in at when I finished high school." Misha shrugs—and before he can say anything else, he has to turn back to the skillet, to making the latkes just right.

It's an opportunity to really get a proper look at him—one that Jensen takes quite readily. There's been a mutual lack of nudity for a while now, and a lack of getting physical, and from this angle, Misha looks as skinny as he ever has. Stupid bastard with his good diet and his high school track star physique and… well, his everything. Because everything about him is so nauseatingly perfect—and that's not just boyfriend goggles, it's simple facts. And Jensen doesn't buy a word of what Misha's selling—not until the latkes are done and Misha invites himself into Jensen's personal space. Not until he sits himself down, straddling Jensen's thighs, and starts peeling off his t-shirt (which, now that Jensen notices, is definitely looser on him than Misha usually wears).

And there it is, sitting proudly around Misha's waist: a pale, pudgy little tummy, squishing over the strained, elastic waistband of his pajama pants. His sides, too, are softer and so are his thighs when they wrap around Jensen's legs, his ass when it sinks into Jensen's lap—Misha's hips curve out underneath Jensen's hands, and he can sink his fingers into extra flesh without trying too hard to find it—and now that Jensen's actually looking for it, he guesses he can see places where Misha's face is a little bit fuller, where his cheeks aren't quite as sharply defined as they were in September.

But the most damning piece of evidence is definitely his tummy—it's not that big, yet, or that round, or even particularly chubby-looking, but for someone who barely had any fat on him a few months ago, it's a _huge_ change. Jensen keeps his hands on Misha's hips, brushing them up and down his softer sides—and all Misha does is smile at him and shrug as though this isn't anything, as though this isn't a big deal.

"I just figure that… so what, I've put on almost forty pounds since graduation," he says, presses a gentle kiss to Jensen's cheek. "It doesn't change anything about me—and you know what your weight changes about you? Absolutely nothing." He pauses, curls his arms around Jensen's shoulders. "And if you want to make some kind of couple dieting New Year's Resolution, I'll support you. If you don't want to lose any weight, though, that's fine, too. You're still sexy, however you look and whatever the scale says."

Jensen says nothing, just kisses Misha full on the mouth, gently sucking at his lower lip, and when the latkes are done, he eats three of them, with all the fixings.


End file.
